


i don't think i could stand to be (where you don't see me)

by superdupergust



Category: Women's Soccer RPF
Genre: F/F, Fluffy Ending, Light Angst, Pining, Romance, but who can blame her really, character study-adjacent, christen is obsessed with tobin's abs, christen pov, featuring: oblivious!christen and dork!tobin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-13
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:55:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,541
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23624968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/superdupergust/pseuds/superdupergust
Summary: “I didn’t know if you’d remember.”“Of course I do,” she says, because the idea that anyone could forget Tobin Heath is completely incomprehensible.Christen is an oblivious gay.But she gets there.Eventually.
Relationships: Tobin Heath/Christen Press
Comments: 56
Kudos: 514





	i don't think i could stand to be (where you don't see me)

**Author's Note:**

> Welp. This is a thing. Guess there's no going back.
> 
> I've done my best with the timeline, but I also left it pretty vague, to avoid any glaring errors. We're all here for the fun, right?
> 
> Title from "Francis Forever" by Mitski.

Christen Press is an observant person. 

It’s a natural talent, one she’s honed to perfection playing soccer. She has to watch for the signals her teammates throw her, keep her eyes peeled for the tiniest of openings in the opposing defense, read where the ball is going next so she can get there at the exact moment needed. 

She also isn’t one to avoid introspection. She likes self-reflection and spending quiet time alone. She does yoga. She meditates. She values honesty, with others and with herself.

Which is why Christen can’t believe she missed it for so long.

##

She doesn’t figure it out the first time they meet, but why would she?

Christen is busy crushing school records on the pitch and getting good grades in the classroom. She doesn’t have time to concentrate on anything as non-essential as a love life.

She notices Tobin Heath as a worthy opponent, as a player who can pull off a textbook nutmeg and make it look effortless. (And she does. Twice in the same game. Christen narrows her eyes and grits her teeth and vows never to let it happen again.) (She fails. Of course. Tobin is just _that_ good, and Christen admires her talent even as it infuriates her.)

Tobin is an incredible player, a force to be reckoned with. The competitive side of Christen looks forward to their games, even as she knows it would make more sense to dread them. But there’s something in her that recognizes when she’s going up against the best. Tobin isn’t the only player who brings about this sense of recognition, of kinship, but she’s the one Christen thinks about the most.

It’s probably due to that first nutmeg.

She never has been good about letting things go.

##

After her graduation from Stanford and the dissolution of WPS, she goes to Sweden and promises to concentrate on expanding her horizons and finding herself. She tries new foods and new drinks and new hobbies. She dabbles in getting into films (not for her). She picks up knitting (oddly satisfying, but it makes her wrists hurt). She tries exactly two times to have one-night stands with guys she meets in bars, because she’s always been too much of a control freak to do it before. (Both times, she can’t quite make herself go through with it, her mind a nonstop slideshow of potential STDs and serial killers who seem like nice guys until they get you back to their murder basements.)

After the second attempt, Christen gives up on the one-night stand idea - after all, there’s no reason to ignore logic for the sole purpose of “finding herself.” She’s a logical person, and while some people might think that doesn’t make sense with her hippie tendencies, she thinks it balances well.

So she gives up on the idea of “finding herself” and vows to stay true to herself instead. She’ll be open to new experiences, rather than seeking out change simply for the sake of it. 

The first new experience to come her way is a nice guy named Anders, and she goes along with it. They spend a nice six months together having nice dinners and engaging in nice sex. 

He gets offended when he asks if sex with him is better than soccer, and she says no.

(She doesn’t mean it to be an insult. It’s just fact. Nothing is better than scoring a big goal, the crowd going wild, throwing her arms around her closest teammates in celebration. The thought that sex could be half as amazing is laughable.)

Christen breaks up with him soon after and feels nothing but a vague sense of relief.

Soccer will always be her heart’s true love anyway. If she’s ever going to be in a serious relationship with someone, they’ll just have to understand that.

##

Only a few weeks later, she gets the call up to the USWNT camp.

She hangs up the phone and immediately screams so loud that Mrs. Adolfsson, the elderly woman who lives next to her, knocks on her door to check that she’s okay.

Christen has never been more okay in her life.

##

She’s strangely overwhelmed when she meets Tobin again. There’s no reason for it, the way she’s suddenly nervous, her hands clammy.

Those dark brown eyes focus on Christen’s, and she reaches out a hand. “Hi. I’m Tobin.”

Christen shakes it, answers, “I know,” like an idiot.

Tobin just laughs, pulling her hand back and flashing that wide, bright smile. Christen’s cheeks warm.

“I didn’t know if you’d remember.”

“Of course I do,” she says, because the idea that anyone could forget Tobin Heath is completely incomprehensible. 

Then they don’t say anything else, and Tobin is moving along, introducing herself to another new recruit, and Christen feels just a little off-balance. Like there is something not quite right about her equilibrium.

She blames it on that old competitive spirit coming out again, even though this time they’re (finally) on the same team.

##

They become close almost at once, in a way Christen doesn’t expect.

She has friends, of course. She’s always had a positive energy people gravitate toward, and she doesn’t mind. She loves her alone time, but she likes people, too. She’s had a thousand friendly acquaintances, regular friends from California and Stanford and clubs, and a select few good friends over the years - some who understand her and some who understand her love of soccer. 

But Tobin is the first one, she thinks, who really gets both.

It isn’t because they’re extremely similar. In terms of personality, they’re actually quite different. Tobin hates mornings and likes weird, obscure bands, and the look she gives Christen when she asks if Tobin wants to join her for a yoga session makes Christen double over laughing.

But they work anyway. They work on the pitch, where they practice to the brink of exhaustion, until that whistle finally blows. And then it’s just the two of them, staying behind and practicing some more. 

They work on the bus, where it only takes a few weeks for it to become established fact that they sit together. There, they tell stories or dissect plays from a game or just listen to music until Tobin falls asleep against her shoulder, and Christen stays perfectly still for the rest of the journey, not wanting to disrupt her, and feeling the strangest urge to run her fingers through Tobin’s hair.

And still, Christen doesn’t know. 

Maybe if she had realized at this point, she wouldn’t have been totally fucked.

But she doesn’t.

##

Christen goes back to Sweden, and time passes.

They’re not the kind of friends who talk every day, and they probably wouldn’t be even if they were in the same timezone. But Christen watches every single Thorns game and sends Tobin artsy Instagram posts that remind Christen of her, and Tobin calls her to ask her random questions and sends her pictures of sunsets and cute dogs.

Christen dates (a little), she plays soccer (a lot), and the world keeps spinning.

##

Camp comes around again, she gets the call up, and she’s so grateful she nearly falls to her knees. She’s been breaking records, still, but you never know. It’s never guaranteed.

She texts Tobin immediately and calls her mom, and she cries from sheer joy because she’s going home.

Not to the country. In some ways, Christen actually prefers Sweden to the US. But she’s never felt so much at home anywhere as she does with the USWNT, with Abby’s leadership and Pinoe’s jokes, Carli’s intensity and Tobin’s smiles.

She falls asleep thinking of those smiles, and how she’ll see them in person again soon.

##

And still, she doesn’t realize.

##

She doesn’t realize when Tobin tackles her a little too hard during camp, and they go rolling, tangled in a heap, Tobin’s body landing atop hers, pressed together from head to toe.

Tobin clambers onto her knees immediately, leaning forward, her eyes dark with concern when Christen stays down for a couple seconds too long. A crinkle appears between those eyes, her fingers resting lightly on Christen’s arm as she asks if she’s okay, and Christen thinks for a moment that they must have landed harder than she thought, because she can’t seem to get enough oxygen into her lungs.

##

She doesn’t realize when they’re rooming together and Tobin emerges from the shower wearing only a plain grey sports bra and pair of black sweatpants slung low across her hips, and Christen can’t seem to stop staring at her abs. 

Her head goes foggy, and she blames exhaustion and lies down to go to sleep, and she makes a mental note to ask Tobin about her ab routine the next day.

##

She doesn’t realize when they stay up into the early hours of the morning watching _Bend It Like Beckham_ together in their shared hotel room. After the credits roll, she listens to Tobin’s long-winded rant about how the movie wasn’t even originally supposed to include a role for Jonathan Rhys Whatshisname and how Jess and Jules were supposed to end up together, but Hollywood wasn’t ready for that story. Like gay people like her were anything the world needed to be “ready” for. Like there couldn’t just be two girls who played soccer together and fell in love.

Tobin goes weirdly quiet after that, and Christen thinks it’s because this is the first time Tobin has ever told her, outright, that she’s gay. 

It’s not like it had been a secret, per se. The way she dresses certainly doesn’t scream “heterosexual,” and she’s never once mentioned a boyfriend.

But she’s never mentioned a girlfriend either, and Christen doesn’t like to rely on stereotypes or assumptions.

Though she had assumed.

Or, well, she had at least considered it as a strong possibility. She had spent a lot of time over the course of their friendship thinking about it, actually - the idea of whether or not Tobin was gay. It had seemed strangely important that she know, even though there was really no reason for her to. They didn’t talk about their love lives - mostly because Christen’s barely existed and was not particularly interesting, and she assumed Tobin’s was the same.

But now that Christen does know, all she’s certain of is that she doesn’t want things to be weird, doesn’t want Tobin to ever feel uncomfortable around her. So she enthusiastically agrees, and she doesn’t even have to lie. It _would_ have been a better movie if Jess and Jules had wound up together. Would have made more sense, too.

Tobin says, “Exactly!” and looks at Christen like she’s going to say something else, but instead, she just reaches over and switches off the bedside lamp, and Christen is left blinking in the dark, her head buzzing.

(She doesn’t fall asleep for two hours.)

(She doesn’t know why.)

##

She doesn’t realize when she puts her head in Tobin’s lap and lets her stroke her hair, and has the idle thought that she never, ever wants to move.

She doesn’t realize when Tobin falls sleep reading on the hotel couch, and Christen’s first instinct is to slip off her glasses and cover her with a blanket.

She doesn’t realize when the team is having a rare night out, and Tobin shows up in a lacy black top that’s cut down to her navel, and Christen can’t seem to stop staring at her. It’s just such an uncharacteristic choice - even though it’s paired with ripped jeans and sneakers - and she wants to know why Tobin’s wearing it. She doesn’t ask, though. She isn’t sure she wants to know the answer.

She doesn’t realize when Tobin nutmegs her during practice or when they race each other during laps or when they go swimming together or when Tobin shoots her a perfect assist or when they reference one of their dozen inside jokes or when Tobin is the first thing she thinks about in the morning and the last thing she thinks about when she goes to bed at night. It is, after all, only natural to think about your best friend, especially when she’s your teammate on the team you’ve been dreaming of all your life, and also happens to be your regular roommate on top of it all.

It’s only natural, she thinks.

And she doesn’t realize.

##

Until, one day, she does.

In what is possibly the stupidest way possible.

One morning, Christen grabs the last chocolate donut from the hotel breakfast spread for the sole purpose of allowing Tobin to steal it from her plate when she gets down to breakfast in a few minutes. 

And sure enough, Christen is halfway through her yogurt and granola when a plate bearing a bagel and cream cheese is slapped down next to her, the chair pulled out, but then no one sits.

Christen twists around to find Tobin paused in place, eyes on Christen’s plate.

“You took the last chocolate donut?” 

“Yep.”

“For me?” she asks hopefully, and Christen smirks.

“Um, for me, obviously.”

“I thought we were friends.” Tobin widens her eyes until they’re big and sad and ridiculously puppy-like, and Christen has to bite back a laugh.

She shrugs instead. “It looked good.”

“Can’t believe you’d betray me like that.”

“Better luck tomorrow. Maybe try getting up without snoozing your alarm three times. What’s that saying?” Christen taps a finger on her chin in mock concentration. “The early bird gets the worm?”

And then there’s an arm shooting around her head, the donut snatched away in a blur.

“To the quick go the spoils of war,” Tobin says, as she maneuvers around the chair and finally sits down. She takes a huge bite and cheeses at Christen like she’s so fucking proud of herself for getting away with the theft.

And Christen looks at her, with that big, stupid grin, a chunk of donut sticking out from between her teeth, and she thinks, oh.

 _Oh_.

Christen thinks she mutters something like, “That’s not even how the saying goes.” She knows she turns back to her breakfast and shovels granola into her mouth and chews, even though she could be eating rocks for all she notices. But she has to do something other than sit there and stare at Tobin with her jaw on the floor.

Because that’s what she wants to do.

She wants to look at Tobin and never, ever stop.

She wants to watch her play soccer in that brilliantly talented way she has, so technically precise and stunningly beautiful. She wants to watch Tobin play video games, getting way too into them and yelling at the screen. She wants to watch Tobin watching her precious Arsenal matches, eyes intense and following every movement.

She wants to see her in her huge, dorky glasses and hoodies. She wants to see her in her jeans and t-shirts. In practice tanks. In bikinis. In her kit.

She wants Tobin to tackle her again, but this time when no one’s watching, and she wants to feel every single bit of the other woman’s body against hers.

She wants to touch those abs with her fingers, tracing the dips and curves and ridges, to run her tongue-

Christen drops her spoon.

It clatters onto the plate, and vanilla yogurt splatters onto the table.

Heat rushes into her face, and Christen stands, sure that Tobin is watching her in curiosity, walking blindly toward the bar where the napkins are.

She stands there for a second, taking more time than necessary collecting the napkins, as she tries to get her thoughts under control.

She would say it doesn’t make sense, but it does. It’s the most sense she’s ever made in her entire life. 

Christen thinks of the way she felt like she hadn’t quite found all of herself, even though she spent a long time trying, like there was a piece that was hidden or waiting for her to find the password to unlock it. She thinks of the way she never cared about dating during school, and since, has never once met a man who made her regret that she wouldn’t be able to spend more than a few weeks in his company. The way she idolized her team captain her freshman year at Stanford, but also could barely stand to speak to her because she was so overwhelmed - she had put it down to intimidation at the time. Pretty girls she had watched with a strange twisting sensation in her stomach she’d labeled envy.

In hindsight, it’s all so obvious.

She’s gay.

And she’s ass-backwards, head-over-heels, red-card-tackle in love with Tobin Powell Heath.

##

The problem is, once she does figure it out, it’s worse.

So much worse.

Maybe this is why she lived in denial for so long. As a defense mechanism of sorts.

Because now she can’t stop thinking about Tobin.

Tobin has always been up there on the list of things Christen thinks about. She’ll be browsing through a bookstore and find a book she thinks Tobin might like. She’ll see something she knows will make Tobin laugh, and she’ll make a mental note to tell her next time they’re together, because she doesn’t want to just text her. Christen will be able to tell the story better in person, anyway, and then she’ll get to see Tobin laugh, too.

But now.

Now she knows _why_.

Now Christen knows she wants to see that laugh because it’s her favorite thing in the world. She wants to see the eye crinkles and the teeth and the way she throws her head back, her tangled hair shifting around the long line of her throat. 

And she wants to revel in the fact that she’s the one who caused it.

And it’s awful.

##

She doesn’t know how to act around Tobin anymore. What used to be the most natural thing in the world for her now feels like trying to play a brand new sport when no one’s told her the rules.

She resists the temptation to ask for a new roommate assignment, because she can’t think of an excuse that wouldn’t reflect badly on Tobin, and she sure as hell isn’t going to be honest. There’s also the fact that she simply doesn’t want to hurt Tobin’s feelings, which will happen when it gets around that she’s the one who asked for the change. 

And Christen doesn’t want that. She just wants everything to be normal again. 

She just…she needs time to be able to make that happen. She needs a little more time to herself, to wrap her head around things, to adjust.

So she switches her routine and eats breakfast early, avoiding seeing Tobin at the breakfast table. She talks Crystal into doing yoga with her three nights a week, stays late in Pinoe’s room playing card games.

She tries her best to be normal on the bus, at dinner, in the room, and she hopes that maybe Tobin doesn’t notice. 

She certainly prays she doesn’t know the reason.

Besides, it’s only temporary, until she can get her head back in the game. Nothing is wrong. Not really. Nothing has changed.

Nothing except the fact that she can’t stop thinking about kissing her best friend.

There is that.

##

The funny thing is, knowing she’s gay doesn’t really change anything.

It’s like she finally clicked a huge puzzle piece in place, and now she’s actually starting to be able to make out the picture.

She knows her family will be totally fine with it. (She’s right. Channing says, “Ah, finally figured it out, did you?” Her mom asks if that means she’s finally going to get to meet this Tobin girl Christen talks so much about. Which leads to Christen stumbling over her words and pretending to have a fuzzy connection and ending their phone call early.)

In short, being gay is great. After a few days of soul-searching, she feels comfortable with the label.

The only problem is Tobin.

##

The problem is, she can’t stop looking at Tobin.

The problem is, she can’t breathe right when Tobin leans her head against Christen’s shoulder on the bus.

The problem is, she can’t stop smiling when Tobin hugs her in celebration, even though it’s nothing more than any of the other girls would do.

The problem is, she nearly swallows her tongue when Tobin walks around the room in that stupid sports bra again.

The problem is, she’s blushed more times in the past week than she has in her entire life.

The problem is, Christen needs to _chill_ , and she can’t for the life of her figure out how.

##

But Christen is good at plans. So she devises one. 

Step one, journaling. Maybe if she can pour all her feelings out, be completely, unflinchingly honest about them, she can move past them. 

So after dinner, she finds the nearest bookstore, and she buys a ridiculously overpriced journal, the leather supple and soft. She even splurges and buys a new pen to go with it.

It’s Wednesday, which means Tobin will be at the team’s unofficial weekly poker game, probably until at least ten.

Which gives her two entire hours to journal. Surely that’ll be enough time.

Christen opens the hotel room door and blinks in surprise when she finds Tobin flopped on her stomach across her bed, a magazine with a spread of EPL players open before her. She looks up and greets Christen with a quick, “Hey,” before looking back at the pages.

Christen hesitates in front of the door, her plan crumbling.

She doesn’t want to do this sort of thing in public. She imagines sitting in a café, in the middle of baring her soul on paper, then being interrupted by someone asking for a picture. And she doesn’t want to explain to any of her friends why she would need to barge into their room just to write things in a book, when she could easily do so in her own.

(She’s thought of telling someone. Alex, maybe. But she doesn’t want to resort to that unless things get desperate.)

So she’s left with just one option. Tobin’s a decent person. She’s not going to pry, and she wouldn’t go through Christen’s things.

Christen steels herself, plops down on her bed, and gets down to work.

The thing is, she doesn’t know where to start. She puts her pen to the paper and just…blanks out. 

She doesn’t know if it’s because Tobin is in the room, or if it’s because her feelings are so much that she can’t quite figure out how to put them into words. Maybe a combination of both. She stares at the blank paper and wills the words to appear.

She sneaks a quick look at Tobin, selfishly, because she can’t help it. She’s clearly recently showered, her hair falling loosely around her shoulders, still slightly damp. White tee. Grey sweatpants. She looks just like she always does, like a girl who just wants to play soccer and doesn’t care about much else. And then Christen notices that she’s still on the exact same spread she was before, a large close-up of Raheem Sterling’s face clearly visible on the upper corner nearest Christen.

Even though it has definitely been longer than it should take to read two pages that are almost entirely pictures.

Tobin is, in fact, staring at that magazine like it holds the answers to scoring the perfect goal every time. 

Or maybe like she’s avoiding looking at Christen.

Christen jerks her gaze back down to her journal. Or maybe it has absolutely nothing to do with her, and she needs to get over herself. 

Journaling. Right. Maybe she should start simple. A list. Then she can expand from there.

She’s just pressing pen to paper to make her first bullet point when Tobin clears her throat.

Christen jerks like she’s been stung by a bee, and she leaves a huge, jagged mark all down the first page of the journal.

She doesn’t even care.

She looks at Tobin, who clears her throat again, resolutely still staring at the unturned pages of the magazine.

“Chris.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve got a question.”

“Shoot.”

Tobin bites her lip, and Christen’s gaze is immediately drawn to it. But then Tobin raises her head, and her eyes are so sad and hesitant that Christen can’t look anywhere else.

“Did I…do something? To offend you? Or hurt you?”

A wave of guilt hits Christen, and she stumbles over her words as she says, “No! God, I mean- of course not. You’re totally fine.”

Tobin sends her a searching glance. “Are you sure? I just…you’ve been acting like- I’m really sorry if I did.”

“You haven’t done anything. I promise.”

“Oh. Well. Good.” Her gaze drops back to the magazine. “You haven’t, uh…been talking to Kelley, have you?”

“What?” Christen blinks in confusion at the non-sequitur. “I mean, I said hi to her at dinner, I think? Why?”

Tobin shakes her head. “Never mind. Forget I asked.”

“O…kay,” Christen says, drawing the word out.

The silence drags on for several seconds, until Tobin slams her magazine shut and pops up off the bed.

“I’m late for poker,” she says by way of explanation.

She’s gone before Christen can even say goodbye.

Christen stares at the door for a solid minute after she leaves. 

Then she starts writing.

##

She writes until her hand is sore and aching. She writes until the tendons and ligaments from fingertip to elbow feel like they’re on fire.

She writes until she’s exhausted, and she puts her head down on the pages to try to clear her thoughts and come up with a way to write her next sentence.

Instead, she falls asleep.

##

Christen wakes when Tobin comes back to the room, and a quick glance at the clock tells her it’s nearly midnight.

Tobin stops in place and frowns at her like she’s trying not to laugh. “You’ve, uh. Got ink on your face.”

“What?” she blinks up in confusion.

Tobin does laugh a little, then, gesturing to her cheek, and Christen makes sure her journal is shut before she stands and inspects herself in the mirror. There’s black ink smudged all over her right cheek - thankfully nothing legible.

“Clearly I should never try to be a writer if I can’t even keep myself awake,” she quips, rubbing at the stain with her fingers. 

“I’d read your books,” Tobin says supportively, head in her luggage where she’s digging out her pajamas.

Christen tries to sound nonchalant when she says, “Thanks. Just don’t start with this one.”

“Noted.”

##

And nothing changes.

Well, nothing else.

Christen goes back to her regular routine - though she does keep up yoga with Crystal, because they both enjoy it.

She abandons the journaling after a few days. She isn’t sure what she expected, but she thinks it’s only making things worse, and she feels like a pre-teen scribbling notes about her interactions with her crush throughout the day.

So she shoves it in the hotel drawer in a huff and tries to come up with another solution.

An obvious one would be to drink too much and hook up with another girl, but besides the fact that they’re not supposed to be drinking right now, she doesn’t want another girl.

She wants Tobin.

Christen wants her so much she aches with it.

She never realized before, just how often they touch one another.

But they do. Passing water bottles back and forth, arms brushing in the food line, shoulders pressing together on the bus. Hugs and high fives and helping one another up off the ground, and every time Tobin touches her, Christen feels like she’s on fire.

She doesn’t know how it isn’t obvious. She doesn’t know how Tobin can look at her without realizing that Christen is falling to pieces over something as innocent as a quick touch of her shoulder to get her attention at the dinner table.

When Tobin leans in to make a quiet joke in her ear - something about Pinoe, she honestly doesn’t even know - she laughs shakily and takes a gulp from her water glass.

She thinks, _I have to tell her_.

And she thinks, _There’s no way I can tell her. I won’t do it. I won’t ruin this._

##

It’s a good night, everyone in a good mood, and there’s still a couple hours before they usually go to sleep.

“Netflix?” Tobin asks.

“Sure.”

##

Ten minutes later, it’s apparent that things are not that simple. Christen wants to watch Great British Bake-Off, but she’s flexible. She would watch pretty much anything.

Anything besides a Christmas movie.

“Why not?”

“It’s _summer_. Why do you even need an answer to that question?”

“So? Don’t tell me you’re one of those _no Christmas movies until after Thanksgiving_ people.”

“I am, actually.”

“But you’re depriving yourself of joy the whole rest of the year!” she says dramatically.

Christen snorts. “I think I’m perfectly fine in the joy department, thank you.”

Tobin pauses, and Christen thinks she’s letting it drop. And then she hears: “Tell you what. I’ll wrestle you for it.”

Christen is so startled that she just stares for a moment, mouth frozen as her brain oh-so-helpfully provides her with an image of them rolling around on the floor together. She clears her throat. “What?”

Tobin holds out a thumb, and it takes a second to register. Then Christen lets out a laugh and rolls her eyes. “Are you kidding? What are you, twelve?”

“It’s the only way to settle an argument.”

“In elementary school, maybe.”

“You’re just saying that because you’re scared of losing.”

Christen narrows her eyes. “I know what you’re doing, and it won’t work.”

“Good, then you lose by default.” Tobin smirks and picks up the remote, pointing it at the television as she starts to lounge back against the bed.

“Hey! Not how that works!” 

Tobin shrugs, staring at the television. “I offered you a solution. You rejected it. Ergo, I win.”

“Oh my god, fine.”

“Good,” Tobin says with a satisfied smile.

“No, I mean I’ll thumb wrestle you, you child.”

“Ah. Okay, then.” Tobin sits back up and moves to the side of the bed, patting a spot next to her and extending her other hand. “May the best woman win.”

Christen shakes it, has a sudden flashback to that time they shook hands at her first camp. _I’m Tobin. I know._ Now she knows the feeling for what it is, letting the thrill shoot up her wrist and into her stomach, where it settles, warm and hazy.

They don’t let go, instead shifting their hands into thumb war position.

“One, two, three, four, I declare a thumb war,” they chant together, words Christen hasn’t uttered for at least a decade coming back to her immediately.

Tobin goes on the offensive right off the bat, attacking her thumb with a vengeance.

But Christen isn’t about to let her win. Not when she could be watching shows about tasty food instead of something with a song that will inevitably get stuck in her head for three days.

Plus, well.

You don’t get to the national level of professional sports without being more than a little competitive.

Christen attacks in return, regretting suddenly that she’d offered her left hand and given Tobin the slight advantage.

It isn’t a quick war, neither of them getting past three before the other is able to evade.

But somewhere along the line, Christen starts _giggling_ , and she can’t stop. She’s laughing like she hasn’t in Tobin’s presence for weeks, too occupied holding herself back, scared of what she might do or say or give away. 

This feels like the two of them again, back before her self-awareness came in and ruined everything. Just them, being stupid and dorky and juvenile in the secret confines of their hotel room, because there’s no one around to judge them. Even though at the same time, a part of Christen is acutely aware of their closeness, of the strength of Tobin’s hand clasped in hers.

Christen tries maneuvering their arms so that Tobin’s wrist is bent backward, but Tobin resists, twisting around until their hands are in Christen’s lap. She scoots backward, pushes her arm up, places her thumb, and presses as hard as she can. “ONETWOTHREEFOURFIVE-“

But then Tobin manages to jerk free, and Christen pauses her laughing to growl in frustration. Tobin snorts.

They go back and forth, and Tobin gets as far as eight before Christen is able to yank her thumb away with a squeal. They’ve gotten louder as the game goes on, shouting and squabbling and yelling, sometimes words, sometimes intelligible sounds.

Christen gives another valiant effort that only results in a four, and she’s laughing again, can’t believe they’re doing this.

Then Tobin twists her arm to an angle so awkward that her only relief is to lie back on the bed. She flops dramatically, bringing their hands up above their heads, so they don’t get crushed when Tobin climbs on top of her.

Because Tobin. Climbs. On top. Of her.

And then, suddenly, they both stop moving.

Tobin’s legs are on either side of Christen’s hips, their stomachs brushing, and Tobin’s mouth is _right there_ and Christen can’t breathe and she can’t look away from Tobin’s lips-

And Christen promptly forgets she has thumbs, much less that she was doing something with them. All she can think is, _Don’t kiss her don’t kiss her don’t kiss her_ , and it takes her a few seconds before she realizes she doesn’t hear Tobin screaming numbers or crowing in victory. And she doesn’t hear giggling anymore, hers or Tobin’s.

All she hears is their breathing, suddenly deafening in the quiet hotel room.

Then she looks up and sees Tobin’s eyes on her mouth, and that’s all it takes.

She lifts her head and brushes her lips against Tobin’s.

A confession. A question. A request.

It’s soft, so soft, and her heart aches with it.

She thinks that if this is the only time she’s ever going to feel Tobin’s lips, that she could be happy with this one, perfect moment.

And then the thought is obliterated by Tobin’s mouth pressing against hers again, gently. She pulls back, meets Christen’s gaze with a silent question in her eyes, and Christen can’t do anything besides breathe out something that’s entirely too close to a sob, and smile.

Then Tobin’s mouth slots against hers, harder this time, and Christen can feel it in her toes, her stomach, her fingers. She frees her left hand and reaches both up to grasp Tobin’s back, pulling her closer.

Then their tongues meet, and Tobin groans into her mouth, and the sound shoots a bolt of heat straight to her pelvis.

Christen has never felt like this before, never. She feels electric, like there’s a lightning storm happening inside her, every nerve alive and firing. She wants Tobin’s hands on every single inch of her skin, all at once. She drags her mouth across that amazing jawline and sucks at the tender juncture of her neck, because she can’t _not_. She’s been looking and wanting and waiting for what feels like an entire lifetime, and she wants to take her time and slow down, but at the same time, she can’t move fast enough. Can’t seem to satiate the greed that’s come to life inside her. 

Tobin breaks away from her, and Christen has a terrifying moment where she thinks Tobin is backing away, that she doesn’t want this.

But then she tugs off her shirt and brings her mouth back to Christen’s, and Christen can finally, finally, run her fingers along her stomach. Tobin gasps when she does, so she does it again, is rewarded by hips pressing more strongly into hers, rocking into the mattress.

And Christen’s mind blinks out.

##

She remembers the rest in flashes, like her brain can’t quite make a picture of the whole, or it would overload.

Running her tongue along those defined abs. Tugging the infernal grey sports bra off and worshipping the nipples hiding beneath. Tobin’s fingers making her scream. Tobin’s words guiding her as she uses her mouth in places lower down, the way she almost comes again from the encouraging words alone.

Sex, it turns out, can come pretty fucking close to soccer.

##

“So I should mention…” Christen says later, sated and lying on her bed, curled up with her back to Tobin’s front. They’re both blissfully naked and still slightly sweaty, and she sort of wants to pull the covers up over them but also doesn’t ever want to move.

“Hmm?” Tobin asks sleepily, drawing idle patterns along Christen’s bare stomach with her fingers.

“I’m a little bit in love with you.”

Tobin’s fingers still, and Christen can feel Tobin’s mouth forming a smile against her neck. “Just a little?”

Christen smacks gently at her arm. “Don’t be rude. And yes. A little.” She hesitates. “If by a little, I mean approximately the size of Wembley Stadium.”

“Mm. That definition of little.”

Christen bites her lip. “Sorry if that’s…y’know. Too soon. Or something. I just needed to tell you. It’s fine if you don’t-“

“Christen,” Tobin interrupts. “I’ve wanted to kiss you since the first time we played Stanford and you shot me that death glare.”

Christen barks out a startled laugh. “Really? The death glare, that’s what did it for you?”

Tobin presses a kiss to her shoulder. “What can I say? I’m a woman with strange tastes. Which probably explains why I love you, too.”

Christen twists around at that, kissing Tobin, lips gentle. Thrilling in the fact that she can just do that now. No excuse needed. 

“Don’t think this means I’ve forgotten about the thumb war, by the way,” Tobin says when she pulls away, and Christen lets out a puff of laughter.

“Seriously? I kiss you, and you’re thinking about a movie?”

“I can think about two things at once,” Tobin grins. “Besides, it was less the movie and more our methods of resolution. If we played by the rules, I believe you forfeited, but I’m willing to give you a chance to win it back.”

“One round? Winner take all?” Christen asks with a raised eyebrow.

“Depends. What does ‘all’ entail?”

“No Christmas movies in my presence until December.”

Tobin pouts. “November?”

“Alright,” Christen agrees. “Deal.”

“Good. What if you win?”

“You have to watch an entire season of Bake-Off with me.”

“Mmm. That’s the one with Sue Perkins, right?”

Christen snorts. “You’re _such_ a lesbian.”

“Thank you. And I officially agree to your terms.”

“Great. We can do it tomorrow, though, right?”

Tobin yawns, her mouth opening so wide Christen is surprised her jaw doesn’t pop.

She shifts around, pressing her back against Tobin, loving the way they slot perfectly together, and Tobin wraps her arms around her once more.

“Whatever you want, Chris,” comes the sleepy mumble in her ear, and Christen drifts off with a smile on her face.

##

(Spoiler alert: Christen wins.

And then the USWNT does, too.

It’s a good time to be Christen Press.)

**Author's Note:**

> If anyone has tips on how to recover your sanity after losing it to these two, please leave them in the comments below.


End file.
